The Winds of Winter
by Truthless of Shinovar
Summary: A Song of Ice and Fire Fanfic (and a good one - PLEASE REVIEW)
1. Prologue: The Death of Bran

He walked slowly and carefully over the stones. Eyes down, he did not notice the danger until he was but a few yards from it. Theon was angry, dark shadows evident in his eyes. But he was not scared, not yet, for he knew not what had happened, and even if he had, he was proud, and did not care the peril he was in. Theon had been hard, had been violent, had been grim, had even been foreboding, but never had he been a danger before. But today, he was. His eyebrows were creased with more than worry, with a savage anger that threatened more deeply than any words could. His eyes glared daggers at all in the room. The man walked forward warily, ever gazing about in wonder at the glorious Hall.

It was a magnificent piece of art, a true testament to the genius of Theon. Though his strengths lay in battle, age had come on him too soon, as it too often does, and he had insisted on designing the entire room from floor to ceiling. The walls were three stories tall, and resplendent in tapestries old and beautiful as the mountain on which the hall rested. The ceiling was curved, not undomelike, but the angle changed, getting steeper as it ascended, until its apex nearly fifty feet above. Great jade blocks made up the floor, its pureness marred only by the throne on which Theon was sitting. It was on this throne that the man's eyes finally rested, for it was obviously the centerpiece of the room. An enormous, ghastly thing, it was made entirely of iron, with the odd spike protruding from the seat. It was at least four thousand years old, some said, dating it back to the Age of Kings. Most, however, deem it a mere replica, commissioned by the Fool King Tommen when the original was stolen by Thoros, the flame-robed priest of Myr.

As was the custom, as the man approached he removed all his clothing, piece by piece, until he belonged more in a brothel than a throne room. The trail of clothing was quickly gathered and whisked away by the poor that huddled in the corners of the room. The man stopped before the throne, knelt, and kissed the gold-shod tips of Theon's boots. They were slick and slimy with others' saliva, but he did not care. Not if it spared him having to look into those awful flaming eyes.

"So . . . you have returned." Theon said, his voice as ever thin and raspy. "I did not expect it. Then again, I rarely expect much from you at all. Tell me, what tidings do you bring to your master?"

"I bring word from Highgarden. The Tyrell house has wed young Loras to –"

"This is known."

"I bring word from Dorne. The Prince wishes –"

"I do not care to know what the Dornish Prince would have of me. He is a viper, as Oberyn, was, and the words of his slippery skin belong not in this hall. Tell me what comes from Winterfell, what comes of the Wolves of the North. You must have news of your kinsmen of Stark."

The man stopped and made an elaborate bow. It was always wise to do so before delivering important news, good or bad, because some of these battles it was unclear on which side Theon sat, if he sat a side at all. "Yes, Your Grace. Winterfell lies broken and burned, but the walls hold strong. It will not be long now, though, not since we have the Wall."

"Indeed? How lucky for you. Your brother, Rickon, will soon be vanquished, and the rule of the ironborn uncontested. Very good." Turning to one of his attendants, he whose chosen name was Robert Strong, though he was still called Mountain, and said "On your way to the Wall, tell the Damphair it has come time for him to reenter my graces. My nuncle is not known for his forgiveness nor for his goodwill towards heretics, and I fear I have waited too long as it is."

Bran backed away slowly, barely daring to hope that it was over, that he could finally be free. It had been long months since he had dared hope. But Theon was speaking to him again, and this time he sounded cold, even angry, his voice finally matching his face, and Bran found himself stopped in his tracks by its power.

"And Stannis? I had almost forgotten, though I have rarely thought of less since the first rumor reached me. What comes of Stannis?"

"Stannis lies triumphant, basking in the shade of his glory. His recent victory over Daenerys has left him as arrogant as his dragon. You will not be able to banter nor to haggle with him now"

"And so a young wolf falls. Asha, take his head."

Blackness.


	2. Melisandre: The Rule of Rickon

Melsandre was not happy. She had been gazing into her flames for hours, but still all she saw was whiteness, a deep swirling purity that scared her more than any darkness ever could. The cleanliness that would destroy the world. At first, she had been confused; who, in the world, aside from Rhillor, could summon such a doom for mankind? And it was not Rhillor – that she knew, her prophecy had not failed her that much. But later, after long time entranced by the endless storm, she began to see the cause. The whiteness that she had seen was not a vortex, or an inexplicable godly force, like she had originally assumed, but rather a natural blizzard, though a larger one than had any right to exist. And, moreover, the blizzard was not what was to destroy humanity, as she had thought. Rather, it was a cloak, a guise, for the White Walkers, whose limbs, she could now see, occasionally reached out of the storm's shadowy depths. Elon-Tandaril, once called Coldhands by the greenseer Stark, was powerless to stop this doom, for never could he stand against his rival, the one whose name is only Shadow.

Melsandre saw this, and she was scared. Her time in the Citadel had never prepared her for this, nor her time with Stannis and John Snow, nor her time after in the hands of the Wolves. But she knew that this burden was hers alone – she could not have explained how, but she knew she was the only priest to have received this particular vision. She walked out of her room in the dungeon, as always averting her eyes from the Wolf Tombs, they that held the ancients of Stark, from the stone faces of Eddard, whom she had never met, and from John Snow, whom she had never truly known. As she climbed the steps that led from her cellar – room, she smiled. It had been many years since Rhillor had trusted her with a task so great, and she would ensure that his trust was not misplaced, even if it did mean sitting in the dank and slimy dungeon with only the carved faces of Stark to comfort her. That was where it was quiet, so that was where she went, never mind the lavish set of rooms that Rickon had granted her. Not that she didn't appreciate them, they were, after all, some of the very few that had remained intact these past few years.

Damphair met her at the doorway to the main hall. He looked better than he had the previous day, but he was still thin, and she could see the death of Bran still hung heavily over him. He had known him well, and moreover, I had been to him that Bran's safety had been entrusted.

"I wouldn't go in there right now," he said softly "Rickon has just heard about Loras."

"Loras?" This was news; nothing had been heard from Highgarden in many weeks. "What has happened to Loras?"

"Nothing bad, my lady. Rather, he's been engaged." This was bad. Rickon had long harbored a hope that Loras would wed Sansa.

"To whom?"

"To a Frey, a Walda I think. He still resents the Freys for the murder of Robb, even if it was his own fault."

"Still, I think I'd better go. I have seen more, a date this time, and I think this he needs to hear of"

She set off at a brisk pace through the entry hall and then the Throne Room, stopping only at the very front of the room, but a few feet from the throne which Rickon was seated, petting his wolf, Sar-Aleyif, who had once been known as Shaggydog. The name had come from one of his father's books, a dictionary of High Valyrian. In the Tongue of Smoke, the name meant Dragon.

Rickon looked up as she approached, and in his eyes she saw the truth. He was not distraught, as the Damphair had led her to believe. He was happy, almost celebratory, and she knew why.

"You've heard then? About Stannis?"

"Just a few moments ago, in fact. Did you see it in your flames? In those fires of yours?"

"No, a crow came from Deepwood Motte. Your Grace, we have much to discuss. The Enemy has returned"


	3. Euron: The Cry of the Crow

Euron Greyjoy, oft called the Crow's Eye, gazed into the mists of Slavers' Bay. Around him, destruction reigned. His fleet, though weakened by the breaking of the Quarthian blockade, was still stronger in numbers than that of Stannis, even though he had been bolstered by his utter defeat of Danaerys, the Mother of Dragons. But numbers, he knew, were not the only deciding factor in war. His own troops' morale had been shaken by the many weeks at sea, while Stannis's Unsullied would fight to the last man. A man approached him, and as he did, Euron recognized him as Elon-Tandaril, once called Coldhands. Euron unconsciously backed away as he approached; he still could not shake the feeling that there was something wrong about him. He looked weird enough physically, with the unnaturally pale skin, the opaque blue eyes, and the scars that covered every inch of his body.

"Captain," He said in his deep gravelly voice. "I think the day is lost. We should retreat to Astapor and recuperate. Baratheon will not follow, he too has suffered losses."

"What makes you think the day is lost? The battle seems to be going fine from here? Collton holds the left flank while Varangian pushes forward on the right."

"Not so, my lord. Varangian is bluffing. Look how many of his ships are actually afloat? He has clumped his ships together to appear stronger, but in fact he has lost half his effective fighting force. The ruse will not hold long however, Jorah Mormont is wise in the ways of war, and he saw the Lord John Connington try the same trick at the Battle of Griffin Sea. You will not win this day. But sound the retreat, and you may win tomorrow. Besides, you know as well as I that the battle will only truly be decided when Stannis flies out on his dragon"

"You do not give me hope with those solemn words of yours. Ah, very well." He turned to his bugler, a stout man in ill-fitting overalls. "Sound the general retreat." It was a shame, but he knew from experience that the Tandarillion was never wrong about these things. He watched as his army expertly disengaged and began to withdraw. He lost some ships in the maneuver, but not as many as Stannis would have in the same. This was one move that he felt he had truly mastered – That all the ironborn had.

The ships sailed slowly through the iron booms of Astapor. Euron was the first to disembark, as befit his rank, and so he was the first to see the utter destruction that reigned with in. Almost the entire city had been burned, and the entire city had been sacked. Euron knew immediately what must have happened. Daenerys, whom he had thought routed, had sacked the city. A shout rose behind him. A small man, dressed as a messenger, was running along the line of ships, jumping from one to another in order to reach him. He turned, surprised. Did his captains not realize he could see what had happened? Or were they sending a different message entirely?

When the man reached him, Euron saw that he had misunderstood. The man was not running a messenger to him, nor to anyone else. The man ran right past him, continuing straight into the ruined city. Euron felt, yet again, a feeling of utter confusion. Did the man have a wife or children inside the city that he wanted to check on? An elderly parent? A squealing babe? But as more and more sailors streamed past him, Euron realized that they were not running _to_ anything. They were running away, Euron turned, dreading what he might see. There, just visible over the horizon, was a fleet of ships, easily twice the size of his own. And they were flying the Dragon of Valyria on their masts, and just below the symbol, the words Sar-Aleyif in the Tongue of Smoke.


	4. Arya: The Moose of Death

She crouched slowly, barely moving at all. This, here, was the scariest bit of the chase. If she was seen now, she would fail and probably die. She peeked around the corner. Her target was standing still, with an ear cocked in her direction. As she watched, with horrified fascination, it turned around and assumed a crouch of its own, the skin on the back of its neck sticking straight up. How ironic it would be if she were to die fighting a cat in the canals. But no, even as she prepared to die, the cat relaxed and turned around, apparently judging that there was no threat. She, too, slowly straightened up out of her crouch, and followed. The cat was faster than her, but less agile, so she could keep up as long as she was smart about it. The cat ran parallel to a canal for miles searching for a bridge; she swam across. The cat ran around the edge of a public square to avoid the people, but she climbed down the storm drain and ran straight across.

Eventually, the cat started slowing down, and Arya did too. This mouse form was really not the best choice for this job, because though its nose was specially attuned to the smell of cat, it tired easily and could not run long distances. But today, it wouldn't have to. The cat had stopped to lick itself, and Arya saw an opportunity. Slowly she crept towards the cat until it was within reach, and, with a single stroke of her mouse claws, slit its throat. Blood spurted everywhere, and, as the cat made its last, pitiful, sounds, people she had not noticed standing around her, watching her sneak up, began to clap.

She ran quickly down a storm drain, but the sound of their cheers followed her:

"A cat slain by a mouse! The new age has truly come!"

"No! Don't say that! Say this was a unique event, or we'll have to lock our cows up at night!"

"Can ye not see the evidence before you? The Lord hast calleth down a murine and grievous murrain to smite the grimalkin of faith. Here ye of our fate! See ye not the moose of death come to kill us in our beds?"

"The what?"

"The mouse!"

"But a second ago you said a moose!"

"No! I heard him say a mouse!"

"It was a moose!"

"Mouse!"

"Moose!"

"Mouse!"

"Moose!"

The sounds of a street fight were quick to follow.

Arya padded home slowly on tired paws. The kindly man would not like the scene she had caused, and she was not entirely happy with herself either. How had she not noticed an entire square full of people? It was good thing the priest had been there, or who knows what could have happened. The priest had added an air of ridiculousness to the whole event. She wondered if it had been deliberate – even priests did not usually say "Hear ye of our fate". Thinking on this topic, she fell into a comfortable sleep.


	5. Melisandre: The Alliance of Gods

Rickon had disappointed her. She had tried, time after time, but Melisandre could not convince him. She had failed herself and Rhillor. Almost in tears, she crept back into the shadowy dungeon that had become her home. Here, she could think; here, she could plan. The problem was not Rickon, but Tal-Aleyif. Every time she had a nice speech going, every time she could feel him swaying, that infernal mutt would bark up a storm and distract him. For a second, she considered the possibility of removing him – not necessarily through death, but a nice drugged steak couldn't hurt her chances. Then she had a different idea, one that did not require skills she simply did not possess, like dog-calming, drugging, and lying. She would ask Rhillor for a miracle, one so powerful that Rickon could not help but believe. Normally, she would not attempt something so daring, because the Lord of Light was a proud god and was not pleasantly disposed towards the giving of undeserved favors. But, she supposed, he had sent her the vision, and that had to mean that it mattered to him quite a bit.

She gathered wood and flint and steel, and prepared to begin her rituals. It would take time, but Rhillor had taught her patience, and she would use it well. She was just getting a steady flame going when she heard a knock on the door. It was the Damphair.

"Aeron Greyjoy. What a pleasant surprise. Tell me, and tell me true, what brings you to my humble abode?"

The Damphair responded in an uncharacteristically sarcastic tone, perhaps brought on by her rudeness. "Your beauty, My Lady, and your grace."

"But seriously, what is the matter that so requires my attention that you descended into this damp and gloomy cavern?"

"We have a visitor."

"A visitor? Who?"

"Sir Robert Strong, he calls himself, but I rather think he is Sir Gregor Clegane, though a rumor of his death did reach me."

"Why does Theon send his darkest servant to Winterfell? Should his eye not be in the East, where the Usurper's brother, the Unburnt, and the Crow tangle in earnest battle? That is where my gaze would fall."  
"It would seem that conflict has resolved itself in a wholly unexpected way. Dragonstone has sworn itself to Aegon Targaryen who, after his defeat at Griffin Sea, fled to Myr. Its newly built fleet of ships has sailed to Astapor and sunk my brother's entire army on the shores of Slaver's Bay."

"The Crow is vanquished? Who now will sit the Seastone Chair? The Ironborn will never accept Theon, not now that he has taken up the Iron Throne, nor Asha, now that she has thrown her support his way. Will Victarion at last take Balons place? Will you rouse yourself from the salty depths and rule your people?"

"As I said, we have a visitor. Theon sends a missive that he wishes me to reenter his graces. He wishes me to join him at his seat at Casterly Rock, and to rule the kingdom as his Hand."

"And what have you decided? Will you rule Westeros or the Iron Isles?"

"Neither. I have received a message from my god. I am to stay here and defend the world from a great danger. Which one, I do not yet know"

"I believe," said Melisandre, "that I can help you with that."

And maybe, she thought to herself, you can help me too.


End file.
